


Destiny's Edge

by InArlathan



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon-Typical Violence, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dark, Discrimination, Gen, Grimdark, OC Crossover, Pre-Canon, Slurs, What-If, a dash of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:34:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28670049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InArlathan/pseuds/InArlathan
Summary: The night before the Conclave, Lavellan and her traveling companion stop by a small Ferelden village to rest. There, she encounters a broody young noble who disguised himself as a merc. His name: Tristan Trevelyan. Sensing that he is up to no good, Lavellan decides to act – and accidentally forces destiny's hand.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	Destiny's Edge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Johaerys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johaerys/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A World With You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19820380) by [Johaerys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johaerys/pseuds/Johaerys). 



> Thank you for stopping by, lovely reader. ♥︎
> 
> This fic is an OC Crossover between Johaerys's Tristan Trevelyan and my Elenara Lavellan. Their fateful encounter will decide who will become Herald of Andraste, changing the fate of Thedas forever. But this is also an ode to a story called ["A World With You"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19820380/chapters/46929913). It has stolen my heart and I couldn't help but bring Tristan into my world state as well. He's such an intriguing character and a wonderful Inquisitor. If you haven't checked the story out, please do. I highly recommend it!
> 
> A big thank you to Johaerys who allowed me to mess around with Tristan. I love your boy, my friend, and I loved writing this story. It's easily one of the best one-shots I've ever written. It wouldn't have been possible without you. Thank you so much!
> 
> Happy reading!

She was tired to the bone when they finally reached the inn. 

It was a shabby thing with small windows and frozen cobwebs hanging from the beam above the door. A wooden sign dangled in the wind, filling the air with a creaking sound that made her teeth ache. The writing on it was barely legible, but the painting of a boar’s head hadn’t completely vanished yet.

“Look at that, my dear Lavellan,” Sister Heloise said in a cheerful tone. “We‘ve made it!”

She cast a glance at the elderly woman. They had started their trek up the Frostback mountains at first light that day, crawling up the narrow path at a terribly slow pace, and somehow the cleric had still managed to keep her blithe spirit. Maybe there was something to this Maker of hers after all. Maybe her firm belief in him had gifted the old woman with a strength Lavellan had not seen in many humans before. Or maybe she owed it to the trusty mule that had been carrying her and a large part of their meager supplies up the serpentines.

“We made it,” she agreed with a wry smile on her lips, “but I didn’t expect the journey to take so long. We should have passed this village hours ago. If we keep getting delayed like that, we might miss this conclave.”

She looked to the small collection of wooden huts that clung to a narrow plateau on the side of the mountain like climbing plants. Their roofs were covered with powdery snow and their windows gleamed with the warm light of hearth fires. Deep shadows crawled across the ridges of the mountain as the sun vanished in the West.

The sun was setting at an incredible speed in these parts. Just blink, and you’d miss it. Lavellan had never seen anything like it before. There was a steady pace to the change of night and day where she came from and the winters in the Free Marches weren’t as harsh as they seemed to be in Ferelden. Not even close. She really enjoyed the snow, though. The cracking sound it made when she walked was a pure delight. She only wished she could get rid of the heavy boots Sister Heloise had given her before they had boarded the ship to Ferelden. “They will help your little elven toes from falling off, my dear,” she had told her. “You’ll see!” 

“Don’t be so grim, my dear” the cleric said and slipped out of the saddle. “It’s only another day’s travel until we reach the temple. Then our ordeal will be over. Now, come, help me get the saddlebags of our friend here.”

Lavellan scoffed, lips still pursed in a smile.

“Sure.”

Together they unloaded the pair of bags from the mule’s back. The animal whinnied and whimpered with gratitude when Lavellan tossed both of them over her shoulder, adding to the backpack and weapon she was already carrying. Her back arched, but she patted the mule’s nose anyway. “Thank you,” she said softly. 

Sister Heloise hitched the mule to a post by the water trough that stood in front of the inn, then strode towards the door. Lavellan followed on her heel. The air inside was thick with warmth and smoke and the shared breath of a good dozen people. Most of them sat on benches and massive tables, drinking ale, wolfing down their dinner, and staring at each other in silent conversation. Two men had taken a seat at the bar on the other side of the room, each one taking up one end of the counter. One of the two – short grey hair, weather-beaten face – stirred and turned towards the door as Sister Heloise and her companion entered. A townsman by the looks of it. His threadbare vest had seen better days and his boots were caked with mud and melted snow.

“Oy, Jordan,” the man yelled and pointed at the cleric. “There’s another one!”

Sister Heloise walked up to the man and schooled her face into a benevolent smile as if she was about to teach a class of unruly children a lesson in humility. Her gaze was sharp when she sized him up and down. In her pristine vestments — red and white with golden embroidery — she looked like a force to be reckoned with.

A moment later, a human woman appeared through a door behind the bar.  _ That must be Jordan,  _ Lavellan thought.  _ The innkeeper.  _ She was surprisingly young. There were no wrinkles around her eyes and mouth yet, no silver strands pervading her auburn hair. She had a round face and pouting lips and a patch of dark freckles across her nose and cheeks.

“What’s the matter, Hobb?” she asked and then stopped when she noticed the cleric. “Excuse me, Sister! Didn’t expect any more Chantry folks coming by tonight. The last ones have gone for Haven two days ago.”

“We’ve been held up,” Sister Heloise said, her eyes still on the man named Hobb. Lavellan smirked as she saw the man shrink underneath the cleric’s unwavering gaze. “The weather on the Storm Coast is terrible around this time of year.”

“That it is,” Jordan said with a sour face. “Been waiting for shipments from Kirkwall for ages. You didn’t run into some merchants on the road, did you?”

“I’m afraid not,” Sister Heloise said and finally turned to the innkeeper.

“Would’ve been too good to be true,” she said with a sigh. “Anyway, how may I help you, Sister?”

“Two rooms for the night would be nice, my dear.” Sister Heloise made a vague gesture in Lavellan’s direction. “And two servings of whatever you have for dinner.”

Jordan’s gaze flicked to Lavellan, as did those of her guests seated across the room. Only the second man on the bar remained still and sipped his drink. The townsfolk squinted at her and turned their noses up in an instant. It would have been a novelty if things like this hadn’t happened in any other village since Lavellan and Sister Heloise had embarked on their journey in Ostwick.

She straightened her shoulders and stared at the humans surrounding her. If any of them got ideas, she would be ready. She wore her bow securely across her chest and had a quiver full of arrows at her disposal. One false move and she’d had one of them nocked before her opponents could so much as blink, even with the saddlebags as additional weight on her shoulder.

_ Let’s just hope it won’t come to that,  _ she thought.

“Whatcha doin’ with a knife-ear, Sister?” a grim-looking miller asked in the guttural accent of the Fereldan countryside. “One of ’em Dalish, no less. Don’t ya know they‘re dangerous?”

The cleric’s laugh chimed like a bell. 

“Dangerous?” she asked in a tone that spoke of self-assurance. “Have you ever seen a Dalish before, my good man, let alone talked to one?”

The miller gaped at her.

“Eh, no,” he admitted. “But everyone knows that they…”

“What?” Heloise snapped, “steal babies from their cribs? Drink the blood of virgins? Roast humans over the fire?”

The miller’s jaws tensed and his brows knit into a furrow. He was fuming with anger, being scolded like a child in front of the other villagers. Lavellan looked at Sister Heloise and shook her head ever so slightly.  _ Don’t make them angry, _ she thought and hoped that the cleric would pick up on the notion.

“How dare ya talk to me like that!” the miller growled and stood, as did three other men that sat at the same table. The sound of wooden benches being pushed over stone filled the room.

Lavellan readied herself for a fight, glancing this way and that to determine the best options for cover and retreat. If she tossed aside the saddlebags to distract an opponent, she might topple one of the tables and attack from there. 

Sister Heloise didn’t seem troubled at all. Even as the man named Hobb got to his feet and squared his shoulders, towering over the elderly woman when standing, she kept her posture.

“We won’t allow one of ‘em here,” the miller said as he came towards the cleric. “‘Tis as simple as that, Sister.”

It was at that moment that the second man at the bar counter decided to get involved.

“Maker have mercy!” he yelled and turned on his stool. He was holding a glass full of Ferelden cognac in one hand. “Can’t a man have a drink without people running their mouths about something?”

Everybody’s attention shifted to the man at the bar. He was far younger than Lavellan had expected. She guessed that he was in his early thirties, much like herself. And that was not where the similarities ended. His long hair had the same flaxen color as hers and his skin was equally pale. He moved with the refined grace of someone trained for battle, although he seemed to prefer the blade over a bow, judging by the selection of daggers strapped to his belt and forearm. From the way he talked – how the words had rolled off his tongue – she assumed that he was a Free Marcher, and a wealthy one at that. There was a regality to his tone that she had heard merchants and nobles use that often dwelled in the more prosperous cities such as Ostwick or Wycome.

_ Why then does he look like a common merc?  _

The man stared at the townsfolk with dark blue eyes. Whoever he was, he was used to giving commands or he was making a good show of it. He took a long draught from the cognac and set down the empty glass with a bang. “Another one,” he told the innkeeper and flicked the glass towards her. The woman stirred, then fetched the bottle from a cabinet behind the bar and poured him another drink.

“What’s your problem, boy?” the miller asked.

The blond man’s glare was made to melt steel. He downed his next glass of cognac in one long swig. Then he reached for a dagger in his belt and unsheathed the blade in a swift motion. Even Sister Heloise flinched with surprise. 

“Call me ‘boy’ one more time and I will cut that tongue of yours right out,” he said with deadly calm, pointing the dagger at the miller. “And now, leave the Dalish be. She has done nothing to offend you.”

The miller was properly startled by the man’s glare. Lavellan had to give him that. Still, he was not so frightened by the prospect of violence that he backed away. She saw him skimming the cutlery on the table, possibly thinking to himself which of the cheese knives would make for a fine weapon. 

“Gentlemen,” Sister Heloise said and took a step forward, positioning herself between the miller and the merc. She smirked at both of them in a motherly fashion. “There is no need for a fight here. I’m sure we can resolve this in a more civilized way.”

“We do,” Lavellan interjected and gestured toward the door. “I saw tracks of horses and carts on the road. There must be a stable somewhere around here. Give me a proper blanket and I will spend the night there.”

Sister Heloise looked at Lavellan and gave her the tiniest of head-shakes.  _ Not a chance,  _ her eyes seemed to say. Her concern brought a slight smile to Lavellan’s lips. The cleric could be crotchety at times, but she was also very protective. It was one of the main reasons why Lavellan put up with the older woman's quirks. The cleric had a deep admiration for anyone who wished to study and learn and she had supported Lavellan’s own efforts to extend her understanding of the world despite the criticism of her fellow Chantry sisters or the disapproval of the Dalish, sometimes at great risk. And that was why she couldn’t allow the older woman to get into trouble on her behalf. Not again, anyway. 

_ It’ll be alright, _ Lavellan signaled the cleric with a soothing gesture and an affirmative look. The cleric sucked in a breath and held it for a moment before the tension around her mouth and eyes faded and she relaxed.

Sister Heloise turned to the innkeeper. “Would that be possible?”

“Certainly,” Jordan said, still clinging to the bottle of Fereldan cognac from which she had refilled the blond man’s glass. “The stable is not far away. Turn right and you’ll see it. It's a bit windy this time of year, but I can get you a blanket.”

“Excellent.” Sister Heloise clasped her hands before her stomach and cast a glance at everyone in the room. “That’s settled, then.”

Hobb snorted, grabbed the jug of ale he had been drinking from at the bar and emptied it hurriedly. A burp, a mumbled goodbye and he was on his merry way. There was an eagerness to his steps that betrayed his confidence. He couldn’t wait to get away. The miller and his entourage finished their drinks and meals similarly and then walked out the inn single file to return to their families or duties. Only the merc with the Ostwick accent remained. He settled back onto the stool by the bar, refilled his glass, and sipped his drink as if nothing had happened. Only when the innkeeper wanted to replace the bottle of cognac in the cabinet, he raised a hand and said: “Leave that with me.”

Jordan hesitated until the blond man sneered and pulled a few coins from a pouch on his belt. Lavellan heard them  _ clink _ when he dropped them on the bar counter. 

“Have it your way,” the innkeeper said and handed him the bottle. Then she turned to Sister Heloise. “I’ll show you to your room, Sister. The Dalish can hand me your bags and wait here. She’ll have food and a blanket for the night once I return. Alright?”

Sister Heloise nodded curtly but didn’t object. Before she followed the innkeeper up the staircase that led to the guest rooms on the upper floor of the inn, she cast one final glance at Lavellan.  _ Stay safe, my friend. _

Lavellan smiled at her until the old cleric was out of sight, and began to wait. With the townsfolk gone, an eerie quiet had taken up the room and so she took up the empty stool at the bar and slipped onto it. From the corner of her eye, she saw the blond man nursing his cognac.

“Thanks for the help,” she said quietly. “Much appreciated.”

The man shrugged, his dark blue eyes staring into the distance. He looked… lost. Like a child sent into the woods by its parents as a feast for beasts and birds. The darkness in his eyes reminded Lavellan too much of the conclusiveness in her father’s eyes in his final hours. This man had not just seen hardship. He was drowning in it.

“How come a Marcher found his way to a Fereldan backwater such as this?” she asked in a casual tone. “Are you here for the Conclave, too? Where are your traveling companions?”

His lips tightened, but his eyes remained dark and hollow. Lost in his own thoughts, he reached up with his free hand to touch an intricate silver ring he wrote and twisted the trinket. A few moments of silence passed before he asked: “What’s it to you, Dalish?”

“Lavellan.”

He blinked and turned to her, looking inquisitively.

“That is my name,” she clarified. “Elenara Lavellan, to be precise.”

A humorless laugh escaped him. He downed the rest of his drink, then set aside the glass long enough to offer her a gloved hand in greeting. When he spoke, his breath was thick with the scent of alcohol.  _ How much of that cognac did he have before we arrived?  _

“Tristan Trevelyan,” he said.

She eyed his hand before she took it, waiting for him to crush her fingers with his own. To her surprise, his touch was delicate.  _ Trevelyan,  _ she wondered.  _ Why does that name ring a bell? _

“A pleasure to meet you,” she said.

“I highly doubt that,” Trevelyan said as he reached for the bottle to refill his glass once more. “Also, you haven’t answered my question.”

She smiled at him. He might be drunk, but not too drunk not to notice that she had tried to outmaneuver him. 

_ Well, aren’t you a distrustful fellow? _

“It’s a dangerous journey up the mountain” she explained in a more cheerful tone to soothe his suspicion. “We have been delayed by falling rocks, uprooted trees, and snowdrift since we started the ascent to Haven. This might be the reason why we haven’t encountered any bandits on the road. Still, it’s unwise to make the journey on your own. You might die before you reach your destination.”

Trevelyan refilled his glass and brought it up to his lips, where it lingered for a few more moments.

“That’s none of your business, is it?” he asked, his voice slightly muffled by the glass. Lavellan noticed his lips curling into a calculating smile. “Besides, I might ask why a Dalish would accompany a Chantry cleric to a conclave at the ass-end of nowhere? I thought your kind distrusts humans and worships other gods?”

“So you’re not a common thug,” she said.

Trevelyan turned to her again, one eyebrow raised. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, you definitely try your best to impersonate one,” Lavellan replied. “But I just never encountered a sell-sword that gave a shit about the Dalish, let alone knew their customs. You must have had some kind of education, then.”

He wiggled around on his stool, barely able to maintain eye contact. His discomfort brought a self-satisfied smirk to her lips. Going by the flush on his cheeks, her remark annoyed him to no end.

“And I ask again,” he said with controlled anger. “What do you care?” 

“I don’t,” she said with a shrug. “I just find it refreshing.”

Jordan returned before Trevelyan got the chance to reply. The innkeeper carried an old wool blanket under one arm that she dumped next to Lavellan on the bar counter, then disappeared through a door that undoubtedly led to the kitchen. A short while later, she presented Lavellan with a bowl full of stew and a few slices of bread.

“Thank you,” Lavellan said. The stew looked like a colorless, tasteless mass of mashed potatoes mixed with chunks of vegetables and diced beacon. Still, she devoured it like she was sitting at a banquet. She hadn’t realized how hungry she had been after the exhausting trek up the mountain.

From the corner of her eyes, she saw Trevelyan casting curious side-glances at her while nursing his drink. The bottle of cognac emptied at incredible speed, she had to give him that. But then again, going by the darkness in her eyes, this might be his way of keeping something terrible inside him at bay.

“Sister Heloise used to work in the Chantry library in Val Chevin,” Lavellan said after she had cleaned out the bowl with the slices of bread and finished her meal. “She served there for many years until she was ...  _ transferred _ to Ostwick. From what she told me I take it that good old Heloise was a bit too industrious for her grand cleric’s taste, educating the poor and the elves in the local alienage. Her forced redeployment didn’t stop her from doing what she thought was right, though. I met her a few years back when she sold me a few books I was interested in. We garnered some kind of friendship from our shared interest in world history. That’s how I ended up here, more or less.”

Trevelyan looked at her for a long moment, regarding her intently again.

“Curious,” he said in a jovial tone she had not heard him speak in before. “I thought I knew all the Chantry folks in Ostwick. Never seen her before, though.”

That was when it hit her: Trevelyan. Now she knew why that name sounded so familiar. She had heard that name before, back in Ostwick, before boarding the ship that had taken Lavellan and Heloise across the Waking Sea. The Trevelyan family had large holdings in the city and the surrounding countryside and had dealings with all kinds of traders across the known world. Roaming the city, one was bound to hear their name sooner or later. 

She clenched a fist. The man sitting next to her wasn’t some sell-sword. He was of noble birth. Had he been sent by his family to attend the conclave? What kind of interest would Marcher nobles such as the Trevelyans take in a conflict between mages and templars?

No, that was not it. If Trevelyan were interested in representing his family at the conclave, he would have used his privileges to display his importance and intimidate the townsfolk with splendor and riches. But he sat there, dressed in light leather armor with daggers, flasks of powder and poison, and a rather small purse at his belt, and drank. His thoughts were darker than the night outside and he had been eager to draw a weapon on the miller when he’d had no reason to. And despite their short acquaintance, she didn’t take him for some chivalrous knight coming to aid a Dalish just for the sake of it.

_ He’s up to no good,  _ she concluded grimly but schooled her face into a calm expression, so Trevelyan might not get more suspicious than he already was. Suddenly, her thoughts and observations felt like pieces of a puzzle clicking into place. Trevelyan was here, on his own, armed to the teeth and ready to kill, because that was exactly what he intended to. But who? And why?

Sometimes, she cursed the gift Dirthamen had bestowed upon her. The old elven god had granted her the ability to read people like they were open books, even when she didn’t want to. “No secret can be kept from his inquisitive eye,” the Keeper Deshanna had told her. “There are only a few that are more worthy of his vallaslin.”

Absent-mindedly, she touched the red lines of blood writing that graced her nose and cheeks. She had accepted Dirthamen’s gift the day she had come of age and Keeper Deshanna had imbued her skin with the god’s markings. Still, there were times when she wished that she could walk this world like others, unburdened by the knowledge she extracted from people’s faces, their postures. It would save her a lot of trouble, for sure. But now that she had read Trevelyan and had seen the ill-intent, she couldn’t sit idly by.

“I should be going,” she announced and grabbed the folded blanket that still rested on the counter. She tugged it under one arm and got off the stool. “Thanks for the help earlier, again.”

Trevelyan had been about to take another sip but stopped half-way when she slipped away. “You’re alright?” he asked but the words came out somewhat muffled. The cognac was making him sluggish, sloppy. 

“Yes, yes,” Lavellan said and waved his concerns away. “I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”

Without further delay, she made her way back to the door packed with her gear and weapons and a moldy blanket to sleep under. Trevelyan’s gaze followed her. She could feel it on her neck and shoulders until she had stepped outside and a harsh gust of wind whirled up the snow. Through one of the windows, she saw Trevelyan downing the rest of the cognac and then slipping off the bar stool himself. He staggered slightly on his way to the staircase.

_ Good, _ she thought.

As soon as Trevelyan had vanished from her side, she hurried to the stables. They lay next to the inn, just as Jordan had said, and were just as windy as she had expected. An icy breeze slithered through gaps in the wooden walls and made the horses in their boxes uneasy. They whinnied anxiously when she closed the gate behind her and snuck down the aisle to find a place to rest. “It’s alright,” she whispered to them. “I’m a friend.”

The last box in the stables was empty and somewhat clean, so she gathered a small pile of old hay in one corner, unfurled the blanket on top and propped up her equipment against the wall. She quickly searched her belongings to find the small knife and lockpick she had tugged away, along with a short rope.  _ I hope this works,  _ she thought and braced herself.

Lavellan waited for another hour before she left the stables again, the rope slung around her shoulders and the lockpick safely stored in a little bag on her belt. The town was wrapped in a deadly quiet that was only disturbed by the soft hissing of the winter wind brushing up the mountainside. Many of the windows that had been warm and bright with candlelight when she and Sister Heloise had arrived had since gone dark. Even the inn seemed desolated save for a small fire in the hearth down in the taproom.

She rounded the building, looking for ways to climb up to the second story, but the window ledge was too high up and there were no boxes or crates she might have used to make things easier. Besides, there was no knowing which of the rooms Trevelyan occupied. If she jumped the gun and forced one of the windows open before making sure he was inside, she might wake someone who was better left undisturbed. The last thing she needed was another weary traveler urging the townsfolk to lock her up in a dank cell for burglary.

And so she snuck up on the inn’s entrance, taking care one last time that no one was out on the street, and pried the door open. The taproom beyond lay in welcome half-dark. Jordan had removed all evidence of supper and had snuffed out the candles. Only a small fire crackled in the hearth, fending off the bitter cold. Lavellan closed the door behind her carefully and tiptoed over to the staircase. Her heart stopped for a second when one of the steps creaked under her weight. She waited, listening for any sign of life, but heard nothing. Breathing a sigh of relief, she climbed the stairs. 

The second story consisted of a short corridor with five doors leading to individual rooms. Fortunately, the floor was covered with a flush carpet that swallowed the sound of her steps entirely. Holding her breath, she went over to the first room and pressed her ear against the door. No noises were emerging from the other side. No breathing, no snoring, not even the creak of a bed. Same at the second door. These rooms must be empty, she decided and made her way to the third door further down the corridor. Behind it, she heard the faint mumble of Sister Heloise that she had come to be so familiar with. Listening to the old woman whispering in her sleep was something of a consolation. 

_ Two more to go,  _ she told herself and got back to work.

She did a quick check of the door opposite of Sister Heloise’s room but didn’t hear much there either. So there was only one door left for her to check. She could hear Trevelyan’s drunken snore before she even reached it. The sailors on the  _ Fade-bound _ , the ship that had carried Lavellan and Sister Heloise across the Waking Sea, had made much more noise in their hammocks after a night of heavy drinking, but the rumbling sound was still impressive. She wouldn’t complain. Trevelyan’s heavy breathing should drown out any sound she made herself while picking the lock.

Biting her lip, she crouched down and got to work. The lock was old-fashioned and not made to resist a forced entry. It didn’t take her long to pick the mechanism and she let out a relieved breath when she heard the soft  _ click _ of the deadbolt.

The air in Trevelyan’s room was thick, moist, and reeked of sweat and alcohol – no doubt the result of his heavy drinking. Lavellan repressed the urge to cover her mouth and nose. There was a candle on the secretaire in the corner but it had been snuffled out a good while ago. Still, she could make out a traveling bag on the floor and a small collection of personal items on the nightstand. The bed was pushed against the wall underneath the window. The duvets were in shambles, barely covering Trevelyan’s sleeping figure. 

In the dim moonlight that illuminated the room, his face looked more relaxed. Calm, almost. Trevelyan was still wearing the pants and shirt that belonged to his armor but had managed to toss aside his gloves, boots, and belt before falling asleep. His blond hair lay sprawled out on the cushion, a lovely tangled mess.

When Lavellan closed the door behind her, Trevelyan stirred on his bed and let out a deep groan. The sound made her blood run cold and the muscles in her body tensed. She held her breath and turned to him, watching him intently as Trevelyan rolled on one side. He mumbled, his face bolstered on his arm, and began snoring again.  _ That was close, _ she thought.  _ Best not to lose more time. _

At first, she considered simply tying him to one of the bedposts, but she dismissed the plan quickly. Even if she managed to catch his one free hand, he would certainly wake before she had the chance to secure him. And even if he didn’t, it would be easy for him to release himself once he awoke from his drunken dreams. No, she needed to knock him out for good and for a few hours at least.

Luckily, Trevelyan was traveling lightly. 

She recovered his belt from the floor and rummaged through the small pouches as quietly as she could. If she hadn’t suspected him of dubious dealings already, she would be fairly certain now. Where other people stored their money, letters, and other necessities, Trevelyan kept a collection of poisons and lethal powders. She recognized some by their scent or consistency, but others she was unfamiliar with. Soon enough, she found a vial containing a fine purple powder.  _ That should knock him out, _ she thought and allowed herself a curt smile. 

With a low thud, she set aside the belt again and tiptoed over to Trevelyan. The knockout powder was undoubtedly potent, so she had to be extra careful not to inhale it as well. Slowly, but surely, she uncorked the vial and held her breath before the ascending fumes could reach her. On the bed, Trevelyan let out a grunt in his sleep and stirred again. He rolled over to one side, his face turning towards the window.

_ Fenedhis lasa,  _ she thought and bent over Trevelyan. She reached for the window frame to support her, breathing flatly, and brought the vial down to his nose.

That was when Trevelyan cracked open an eye.

Lavellan felt seconds stretch out into hours as they looked at each other. Suddenly she felt as if the two of them were dancing on the edge of destiny. One false step and one of them might fall. Their fates hung in the balance like two sides of a coin that had been flipped into the air. The world held its breath as the coin fell and fell and…

“What the…?”

Trevelyan jolted upright and Lavellan staggered back. She stumbled over one of his boots, swearing wildly under her breath, and saw a wisp of purple powder fluttering from the vial. Lavellan pressed her thumb on the small flask before more of its contents could escape. 

He cursed when he recognized her, his eyes heavy from drinking. With a grunt, he heaved himself off the bed and closed one hand around her wrist. Trevelyan pulled her toward him with uncontrolled force. Lavellan brought up one foot to keep him at a distance but ended up kicking him in the chest and knocking him back onto the bed with an audible huff.

Even in the dark, she could see Trevelyan’s glare and she knew what this had to look like to him: a Dalish he’d defended had come to rob him, or worse. But that was not what she intended. All she wanted to do was take him out long enough to rethink his choices, to choose a different path. That was the way Dirthamen had shown to her and she would not disappoint him.

“We are all gifted by the gods,” Deshanna had told her once, “but those gifts can sometimes feel like a curse. All we can do is to accept their offering.”

“You!”

Trevelyan launched himself at her, but his movements were slow and sloppy. He was still drunk and dazed from the cognac he’d had. Yet, Lavellan didn’t want to underestimate him. He was taller and bulkier than she was. Under any other circumstance, he would overpower her easily.

Lavellan dodged Trevelyan’s attack and managed to kick one of his legs out from under him. He fell to the ground with a groan, yanking his arms up to protect his face. “Maker’s balls,” he wailed, struggling to get to his feet again.

That was when she decided to hold her breath and threw the vial of knockout powder at him.

The glass shattered on impact, filling the entire room with a dense purple mist. Trevelyan coughed and squirmed, flailing around to fend off the intrusive mixture. But it was too late. He had inhaled too much of the mist already. Lavellan watched, still holding her breath, as his body tensed and then relaxed. A few heartbeats later, Trevelyan lay on the ground fully unconscious, not making a sound.

Her lungs were screaming for air, though.

When she was certain that Trevelyan wouldn’t wake again, she pried open the old window, letting in a stream of icy wind. It cost her every ounce of self-control to wait until the last bit of the purple mist had been cleaned out before she drew in a long gasping breath. The air felt clean and sharp, like a shard of ice piercing her chest, and calmed the rush of adrenaline in her blood.

After the last of the knockout powder had vanished, she closed the window again and turned to the still sleeping Trevelyan. She rolled him on his back, reached for his armpits and used the last of her strength to hurl him back onto the bed. Limb as he was, he felt as heavy as a sack of stones. She was panting and sweating by the time she had managed to lie him down on the mattress again. 

“One day,” she said and reached for the rope around her chest, “you’ll thank me for this.” 

She doubted that Trevelyan could hear her. Still, it felt good talking to him while she tied his hands together and secured the binding on two bedposts above his head. Trevelyan had, despite his abrasive behavior, treated her with more respect than any of the villagers tonight. That alone told her that there was some good in him. All Lavellan could do now was hope that he would see it, too.

One way or another, she had the feeling she had saved a life that night.

Months later, whenever she lay awake with a sharp pain emanating from the mark on her hand, she wondered if her meeting with Trevelyan had been a cruel turn of fate. If only a tiny thing had happened differently, one small change in the chain of events, it might have been him acquiring the anchor. With his nonchalance and noble upbringing, Trevelyan might have cut a finer figure than she ever could. His presence would have been intimidating. But then again, he might have hated being named Herald of Andraste just as much as she had. He didn’t seem to be the type who took well to authority, even if he was the one giving the orders.

And in the end, there was no way of knowing what would have happened. She could only hope that destiny had chosen wisely.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like to read more about Lavellan, her story continues in ["Running With The Halla"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27333433/chapters/66783367).


End file.
